He Started It(47)

He wouldn’t listen to any of us: not me, not Eddie, not even Portia. Even when I reminded him that Mom could have called the police on him, that she could have put him in jail for kidnapping us but she didn’t, our grandfather wouldn’t budge. Mom got nothing.

With no money and a public defender, Mom didn’t try to fight the murder charge, didn’t even try to claim insanity. She confessed to everything in exchange for life in prison instead of the death penalty. Felix doesn’t even know. It all happened right before I met him, and I told him both my parents were dead.

Mom wouldn’t see us, either. She refused all visitors when she was awaiting sentencing, so all we could do was sit in her court appearances, watching her from a distance.

“This is so messed up,” Eddie said. He said that every time we saw each other and every time I talked to him. He said it during the small, private service we had to bury our father.

I cried. That’s what I did. I cried for my father, for my mother, and for everything they had gone through because of what happened on the trip. I cried for every lie I told them and every secret I kept. Most of all, I cried for all the years we had lived without Nikki.

Portia was more succinct. The only thing I remember her saying is, “That road trip ruined everything.”

True.



* * *



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I saw Mom just once. A week after she had been transferred to Arrendale State Prison in Georgia, her lawyer contacted me and said she wanted to see me. I flew up that day.

The woman I saw was not my mother. She was a shell of that person, a ghostly figure who looked like someone pretending to be my mother. I don’t think I did a good job hiding the shock.

We were separated by a thick pane of plexiglass, and we spoke through a phone. I had so many things to say, to ask, to tell her, but she picked up the receiver and spoke first.

“Beth,” she said.

“Mom.”

She stared at me. Her eyes were bloodshot but the blue color of them was clear. As clear as I’d ever seen them. She leaned forward a bit and spoke under her breath.

“Find her. You find Nikki, and don’t come back until you do.”

My jaw dropped, and before I could say a word she hung up the phone and stood up. I tried to get her to sit back down, but she walked away. She didn’t turn around even when I yelled.

I never got the chance to tell her that I had been looking for Nikki. I had always been looking for her. I had never stopped.





The day passes in a scenic haze, like we’re driving through a postcard. Without Krista to complain, or lead a cheer, we are silent and bored. Last time we weren’t because Nikki made sure of it. Halfway into the drive, she bought two disposable cameras. One was for us to have fun with.

I still have some of those pictures. There’s one of Nikki and me sitting on the hood of the minivan, the sun shining down and making us squint. Both of us are sticking our tongues out at Eddie, who took the picture.

Another picture is of all four of us—the kids—and we’re all lying down on a bed in a motel room, looking up at the camera. An early selfie, I suppose. That was near the end of the trip, and the first time I saw that picture I was shocked at how wild we looked. In just two weeks, we had gone from well-groomed suburban children to near feral. Our hair was unkempt, our faces a mixture of tanned skin and peeling, sunburnt noses. By then our clothes were dirty and we barely bothered to wash. Nikki wore oxblood-colored lipstick she bought at a drugstore and it made her look unreal.

The second disposable camera was for Grandpa. I don’t have the photos from that one.



* * *



–––––

We haven’t taken many pictures of us on this trip. There was one at the beginning, when we first started out, and another at that hotel bar. Felix has taken a bunch of pictures of the scenery but not of us.

I almost feel bad about it now that Krista’s gone. Not too bad, though.

Lunch is at a roadside hot dog stand, and that’s where Eddie corners me about Krista. He waits until Portia is on her phone and Felix is in the bathroom. Or he might be smoking, because I put cigarettes in his bag this morning. Yesterday he checked for them at least a dozen times.

“Hey,” Eddie says, motioning for me to follow him. He leads me away from picnic tables. “Can you text Krista?”

“Why?”

“I just want to make sure she got home okay. She’s not answering mine.” He sighs. “She’s not really talking to me, so I didn’t think she would.”

“How bad was this fight?”

“Bad. She wanted me to leave, too. Said our marriage was more important than any inheritance.”

“Did Tracy call again?”

He shrugs.

I don’t say anything, so he says, “I can’t control what Tracy does.”

He’s right—he can’t—but knowing Eddie, this is partially his fault. “Okay, I’ll text her.”

“Thanks.”

“You want me to ask her if she has the ashes?” I say.

Eddie gives me the finger as he walks away.

I type and retype a text several times before sending it.


Hey, Krista, I just wanted to check in and see if you got home ok? Sorry we didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. This road trip has been so stressful for all of us.